Harry Potter and the Quintuple Wizard Tournament
by Dirk-Steadfast
Summary: Horry Potter embarks on his fourth year at Hogwarts along with his friends. They (maybe) make new friends from several other schools. Also Harry deals with Sweeney Todd-like obsession in regards to his true nemesis. There will be blood. And food.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: That time has come to pass in which Ol' Bob and I, together again at last after having never parted, write the sequel no one asked for. For those of you who don't know, this is the sequel to our story Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Pet Rock. So if you haven't read that go give it a read, though you might not have to for this story to make sense. We also decided to skip books two and three cause . . . cause. Enjoy the readings and leave us a review or a flame or a pleasant mixture of both.**

**Prologue: The Journaliest Entry You've Ever Read**

_Taken from the journal of Harry Potter._

Dearest Journal,

I write to you now having mastered fully the diction, vocabulary, and participles of my Anglo-Saxon ancestry and language. I think it was Frederick Douglass who said, when speaking of the dire importance of literacy and education, "Don't be a fool—stay in school." AND SO I DID! The words hold power because they rhyme, I think. When I recall my humble beginnings at Hogwarts—I will skip my First Year, because maybe one, or two, people have written on the subject with abandoning abandon—I am compelled to record my fantastical histories. Herein lies, in brief, the chronicles of my Second and Third Years:

I met a downtrodden slave-elf dressed a pauperish rags who told me its name was Dobby. We became fast friends, though he did do many mean things to me, like try to keep me away from my school which was my only respite from my heinous family. He also broke my arm like unto a bitch and made me run into a wall; but then I gave him a sock and he became my strongest ally. I think it was Machiavelli who said, "All you need is love/ Love is all you need" (my dear friend Hermione maintains I should do more research before I site sources, but she is but the son of a man who owns a simple tonsorial parlor—what would she know of the world and the ways we live in it?). It also became clear to me in the summer before my second year that my dearest friend Ronald's sister, one Ginevra Weasley, wanted the HP D, if you'll pardon my vulgarity...and if you will not, then I say she wanted to ride me like a pogo stick. Her flirtatious machinations finally came to fruition when her trollish Valentine messenger shot an arrow far afield of my heart. And, with cherubim nonchalance, I had to crush her feelings like a soft-shelled snail.

And herein lies the meat and potatoes of this year. Unbeknownst to us, Ginny had acquired a special diary on the day before school in which we met both Kenneth Branagh and Draco's unfortunate father. Mr. Branagh, fresh from some directorial shimsham, had applied for and received the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, even though he lacked any sort of experience in magic (except the magic of theater). Upon our meeting, it became evident that Professor B. was a glorified mountebank, fit only to service the plumbing of Hogwarts Technical School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. At this same juncture we made the acquaintance of one Lucius Malfoy, who said to me, and I quote, "I know what you are on the inside, Mr. Potter. You're just a little fat girl, aren't you? You just eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat, until your problems go away, but they never go away because they live inside you, so you just keep eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eating." My compatriots and I for a brief sparkling moment felt compassion for the poor Dracster, saddled as he was with a sire of dubious intelligence. But then he showed up on my Quidditch pitch, having purchased his way into success, and the fires of hatred were rekindled anew.

Also, about that diary: there was a snake, a bird clawed its eyes out, and I poked it with a sword. The snake, not the bird. I think Voldemort was there.

We now move on to Third Year, and what a year it was!

I met a doggy. It turned out to be my uncle. And Ron's rat turned out to be a fat person.

**But more importantly**, I had finally come face to face with my nemesis. He is man that has been carved into existence purely to test the width and breadth of my patience and anger. Imagine, if you will, an alabaster cheek adorned with the subtlest crimson hint of a blush. His strong jaw offsets the gentleness of his brown eyes, pure as the eyes of a deer, or a koodoo. His wavy John Lockes of auburn hair appeared spun by the most talented Oriental spinstresses; and yet the silky follicles looked practical, like the sort warriors of old would use to capture arrows fired at their fragile frames. His skin glowed—sparkled even!—in the sunlight. Hermione said I just imagined it, but she's a fool! I see with eyes unclouded!

Our rivalry began when he bested me handily in a very fair match of Quidditch, that was rudely interrupted by a gang of freakish dementors (black cloaky things, not important). I began to see this perfidious foe for what he really was—he was too nice. Anyone that nice is hiding something! Seriously, he always gets top marks, he doesn't get nervous around girls, he doesn't get flop sweat the way I do! When I aired my grievances towards him, he took me to a brunch—HE MADE THE BRUNCH HIMSELF AND IT WAS DELICIOUS! It tasted like hopes and aspirations and angel dreams, and I didn't know fritatas could kick like that! He must have used cumen or something! Whatever his secret ingredient is will hound me to the grave! Hermione accused me of monomania—but she does not know that I am madness maddened, the sort of madness that only stops to comprehend itself.

But then she gave me a ham, and for a brief time my demons were quieted, and I forgot about Cedric Diggory. Or, to his friends, C-Digs.

Ham is good. It is maybe my favorite food.

For now, faithful Journal, I must bid you adieu. For I am on my way to witness the Quidditch World Cup with my besties, Ron, Hermione, and Ron's somewhat sluggish family. Who can say what wonders and tribulations lie in wait for me in this, my Fourth Year of Hogwarts? Maybe I will be atop a broom, and maybe there will be dragons, and perchance there may be some Russkies. But I am no soothsayer, and shall not trifle with what is to come. Also, perhaps I'll return that Hooked On Phonics tape and finally acquire a library card of my own. HP out.

**A/N: Leave a review, or don't, or both, or all three. Even if you don't choose you still have made a choice.**


	2. Chappo 2

**A/N: After a wait of no one was counting, here is the second, but really first chapter of this Harry Potter story. Enjoy.**

**Chapter 1: **

**In Which It Is Really Chapter 2**

Harry dreamed in black and white. they were boring dreams, but they were all he had. Can you imagine the pain of staring at a black-and-white rainbow? It does the soul little comfort.

In this particular dream, Harry saw strange things. Strange even for a cultish wizard lad. Harry saw himself in a house (that somehow smelled, even though it was a dream—it had dream smells). An old man resided here—at least he smelled old. Suddenly, Harry began to see things through the old, smelly man's eyes. Harry saw a light coming from underneath a door. More importantly, though, the door itself had an excellent craftsmanship to it. It was the sort of door Harry wouldn't mind floating on in the middle of the cold sea while holding the dead hand of his lover, who only died because of his selfishness. It had to have been mahogany, or maybe ebony. . . then again, ebony doesn't float. Harry wished that this door had a peep –hole in it, one that was put in backwards so he could see inside. He heard people talking, but Harry was much more of a visual learner and so he didn't really understand what they were saying.

He walked to the door and opened it just a butt crack. He spied a big ol' comfy chair, one he wished he was sitting in because his lumbago was acting up (remember, Harry is an old man here). Next to that chair was a big comfy man, whom Harry recognized as Ron's rat, or whatever.

"But master," spake Man-Rat, "we can proceed without the boy—"

"The boy is everything!" said a voice, a voice that was probably sitting in Harry's comfy chair. "Harry Potter is the star in our sky! Now get me his blood!"

From out of the shadows, a man appeared, a man who defies description because, you know, when sometimes in dreams you see people and you know what they look like, but when you wake up you can't remember? Imagine that that is happening. "My lord," said the man, leaning on the comfortable ottoman, "I have a plan."

"Make it so!" said the voice.

The man sounded befuddled. "Do you want to hear it first?"

"Why? Is it a bad plan?!"

"No no! I, um, think it's a great plan…"

"Then why are we having this conversation?!"

"I honestly don't know, my lord."

A snake appeared from underneath the comfy chair and hissed. The voice said, "Nagini tells me there is a peeper outside our door, peeping away like there was no tomorrow. Wormtail, go see who it is. If they're selling anything, I'm not here!"

The portly man came to the door and swung it open. Harry gazed into small, watery eyes that looked like they had just been dried after a nice cry. "Hey," said the rotund Rat-fellow.

"Step aside you limpwrist," the voice said. "Nagini! Use constrict!"

The snake lunged at Harry/Old Man, and Harry felt a terrible tightness, like a witch's honeypot. The life was squeezed out of Harry, along with some pent-up gas. Harry collapsed to the ground, savoring his last moments of living by listening carefully to those around him, his murderers.

"It's super effective!" the voice said, congratulating his snake. "Now that we have—oh God! That smell! Yuck! Open a window!"

The fat man was waving a magazine in the air. "Light a match!" he said.

"No, you're blowing it towards me! If I was anything more than an evil fetus right now, I'd kick the crap out of you!"

The indescribable man headed for the door. "I'll get the febreeze," he said.

Everything went black.

#

Harry Potter woke up with a start. Then he fell back asleep cause it was still twilight outside and he wouldn't have to be up for another hour. He had another dream, this one even stranger than the last, but less interesting. He was fighting a buffalo that said things like, "The king is dead. Long live the king!"

Harry tried explaining why monarchies aren't always a good idea, but it wouldn't listen to reason. BECAUSE IT WAS A BUFFALO! Then Cedric Diggory arrived on the scene, having been flown there by a pack of flamingos, beautiful, elegant, flamingos that danced Swan Lake. Cedric said to the mighty fighty buffalo that Monarchies are lame, and the beast listened.

Harry woke up again, face utterly saturated with fear sweat. His heart beat like the beat of a drum, oh what a shame that you came here with someoooooooooone.

That's when Harry realized that Ron's alarm clock was going off, and that, like a jackass, Ron was sleeping through it. Harry threw his pillow at Ron's face. It didn't yield the results he had hoped for.

"Oh Hermione," Ron moaned, " . . . Go away."

"Wake up, Ron!" Harry screamed. Ron's eyes slowly opened like that nice door Harry saw in his dream.

"I'd rather die than get up," Ron muttered. Ron had hit angst early, or rather, angst had haymaker'd him like Dick Tracy.

"But we're going to the Quidditch World Cup today!"

Ron rolled over and put a pillow over his head. "No, I just wanna lie in bed and listen to my Nirvana…"

"What are you talking about?! The World Cup is all you ever talk about! It's all you ever write about in your journal! It only happens every four years—you've wanted to go since before I met you!"

"Whatever."

At that moment, Hermione stood in the doorway. Her characteristically smug expression was augmented today by the towel packed with a bar of soap that she swung to and fro like a flail. "So," she said. "Ronald has trouble getting up. He thinks he's special…" She walked over to Ron's bed and whacked the boy a good one on the nards. Ron howled. But Hermione did not relent. "I have tried to help Ron," she said. "But I have failed because _you _have let _him _fail!"

Harry was close to tears. "I didn't do anything!"

"Exactly!"

"Stop being a bully!"

Hermione, feeling that she had completed her mission, walked out of the room. But who should walk in then but thirteen-year-old Ginny Weasley, who had grown uncomfortably fond of Harry as the years had progressed. "Hey Harry," she said dreamily, breathing hard and loudly.

Harry grumbled. "Hey, Ginny."

Ginny stuck out a hand, as if to reach for her golden idol. "That's a nice shirt you've got on," she said.

"Thanks. I slept in it."

"…It's a nice color." Ginny also talked very loudly when she thought she was whispering.

Harry was becoming perturbed. "Yep. It's gray, Ginny. Do you need anything?"

"I saved you a seat next to me for breakfast. We can talk, or just, you know, smell each other."

"Thanks, but, um, I'm think I'm gonna sit next to Ron. 'Cause he's my best friend and all." Ron, who was at that moment crumpled in a weeping heap on the floor, looked like he was not having breakfast this morning. "Or I'll stand and eat," Harry said. "Good workout, you know."

"That's really smart! I'll do it too…next to you."

"Please don't."

"See you down there."

"Okay, Ginny."

"I can't wait."

"_Okay Ginny!"_

Ginny departed slowly, but the sound of her wheezing did not depart for several extra seconds. "Ginny should really wear that nose thing when she sleeps. It did wonders for Neville. Now he's merely fat and unhappy instead of also wheezy."

Ron began to mutter atonally, "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage."

"I'm gonna go get toast," Harry left the room without changing into regular clothes (the savage!).

**A/N: What happens next time? Breakfast? Brunch? Find out . . . next time. We don't own any of JK Rowling's characters, but if we did this is what they would be like.**

**Better.**


	3. Chapterpalooza!

**A/N: Here is the next chapter for your reading pleasure. The more we write the sadder things become for Harry.**

**Chapter 2:**

**The Quidditch World Sippy Cup**

Harry ate toast. As it had been prophesied, so it was fulfilled. Despite Ron's angst and the cramped quarters, Harry was having a good time at the Burrow—not the least reasons of which was because Molly and Arthur Weasley did not treat him like _A Child Called It_, as was the case with his real aunt and uncle. Harry looked around the tiny table in the miniscule breakfast nook and wondered how the utensils fit in the room. The Weasley's were poor, but that didn't quite do justice to their situation: they were the Bratislava of the wizarding world. For some reason, Arthur's government job did not pay well; or maybe it was because his numerous children ate him out of house and home; or maybe-er it was because they were Wizard Catholic, which meant they couldn't wear Wizard Rubbers, which was a Wizard problem. And yet they loved each other!..which only complicated matters further.

"So Harry," Mr. Weasley said, "are we all set to go?"

"But Mr. Weasley, you haven't eaten anything yet!"

"Yes, well," Mr. Weasley said sadly, "last night I had a dream in which I ate a big big breakfast, and it was so good I'm not hungry now." He sat back in his chair, and his stomach growled the word, _"Fooooooood."_

"Okay," Harry said, biting into his toast and relishing every bit of it.

After breakfast, the Weasley men and Harry (and-er Hermione) set out for the Quidditch World Cup. Molly and her daughter were left behind, given the choice to crochet or tend the flock (the Weasley's had begun raising a murder of hobgoblins, which were like regular goblins except smaller and ill-tempered-er). The reason only Hermione was able to go was because an old, outdated Wizard statute forbade travelers from traveling with more than one "concubine" in their midsts. The law was foolish and superfluous, but still heavily enforced.

The group climbed to the top of a hill, where they could see everything, including the elephant graveyard (which sunlight did not touch). This was where Harry saw something worse than the gaunt face of Death itself—he saw Cedric Diggory, resplendent in the golden light of the newborn sun. Cedric held his arm aloft, and an eagle perched there. Next to Cedric stood his father, who _also _held his arm aloft, upon which a larger eagle perched.

"Harry," Mr. Weasley said, "have you met-"

"Cedric—Diggory," Harry said through clenched teeth. "We've...had brunch."

"Hello Harry!" Cedric said, taking Harry's hand in the perfectly pressured handshake—firm but kind, and not limp at all. "How have you been?"

"I live in a small house with my angsty friend's family because my guardians hit me a lot!"

"Oh that's awful!" Cedric said, waving his dad over. "Why don't you stay at our place? Dad, can he?"

Amos Diggory came over and introduced himself, hugging Harry kindly. "Of course he can. We live in a mansion after all! Though we usually let homeless people stay in most of the rooms, free of charge. But we have a free one next to the pool...well, the smaller pool, only 30 by 60, I hope you don't mind."

Harry's face was the color of sad, angry tomatoes. "Is that measured in feet?"

"What are we in America? Meters!"  
Before Harry could actually explode, Hermione interrupted the conversation. "Hey Cedric! You know, I used to think carnal pleasures were for philistines, but"-Hermione twisted her hair around a finger and affected a terribly shrill laugh, while sticking out her chest and biting on her lower lip-"do you, like, wanna hang out? Get coffee and see a magic film?"

"Well," Cedric said, "I'm in this book club. We meet every week or so. Want to come with me? It's a lot of fun! Have you read much Berkeley?"

"Uh—sometimes," Hermione said dreamily. She had become hot and bothered, fanning herself as her womanly mechanisms began to lubricate.

Ron lifted his nose in the air and sniffed. "Do you guys smell clams?"

"Well," Mr. Diggory said, "Cedric, why don't you invite all your friends over some day for a pizza party?"

"That sounds swell! I love you, Dad!" The two shared a tender moment, a moment Harry Potter could never dream of duplicating.

Thanks to the wonders of magic, Harry's thought bubble could be seen by all around him. In this bubble was the image of himself re-heating beans, alone, in his upper Harlem studio apartment, with the rent two weeks overdue.

"Dude, think happy thoughts, yo," said Ron, tracing eye liner around his . . . eyes.

Harry's face tightened because of the incredible effort, but he succeeded. The image in the bubble was replaced by a short video of Harry Potter playing a friendly game of catch with the tombstone of his daddy, "Catch that ball, daddy!" Lil' Harry said as he lobbed the orb at the stone slab. It hit the rock and fell inert. Lil' Harry hung his head.

"Hey!" Mr. Weasley shouted, "That's a boot over there!" and he was right. There was a boot . . . over there.

Harry instantaneously shook away all the bad things n his life and trotted over to the discarded apparel. "Oh boy!" Harry squealed like a stuck pig, "I've never had a single boot before! I've had a pair, but never just one." Harry picked up the boot and cuddled with it. Then he was sucked into an invisible abyss. In a few seconds, he found himself lying on the ground, amongst thousands upon thousands of busy and unattractive wizards bustling hither and thither. Harry looked to the boot which had bamboozled him. His face expressed betrayal. "Why?" Harry pleaded. "Why?!"

Luckily, Harry was soon joined by the rest of his party. "It was a portkey, Harry," said Mr. Weasley. "It allows us to transport anywhere in the world that also has an old boot."

"Why don't we travel to Hogwarts this way?" Harry asked. "It's more efficient, not to mention much friendlier to our precious environment, which isn't going to last another two centuries at this rate."

"Can it, nerd," Hermione said, sidling up next to Cedric. "We got to a bunch to tents!" Hermione was so overcome by Cedric's handsomeness that she spoke like an imbecile.

But pitch camp they did, despite Hermione's constant fumbling with the rods and her ill-disguised attempts at flirtation with C-Digs. This being done, the group moved en masse towards the gigantic stadium that had been erected in twenty minutes (thanks to—you guessed—wizards and their magic). Once inside, they discovered their seats were less than optimal. There was a large man in the row behind them, eating popcorn and spilling it all over their faces. Also, they were in the 2008th row, where the oxygen was thin, so they didn't much care about anything really.

"Well, well, well..." said a snide, blond voice that was hidden behind two people in front of the group. Pale manicured hands squeezed between these two people, and caused them to part like tall grass, revealing one Draco "Dracster" Malfoy, "I see you're sitting way up here, Potter," Draco turned a friendly eye towards Cedric, "Hey C-Digs. Sorry your seats suck. Wanna sit with me?"

"Sup, Dracster," Cedric said, "That's very kind of you to offer, but I'm happy here with some of my best friends." He placed a hand protectively around Harry's shoulders, which was an impressive feat because Harry was sitting three seats away from his hated nemesis.

"That is an appropriate response," Draco nodded, "Anyway. I see you're still a big stupid head, Potter! How's it feel to be such?"

"Did you walk all the way up here just to mock us?" Ron asked with utmost logic. "It's, like, a twenty minute walk from- now I'm just assuming, you're in the Minister's box cause your whole family is a pack of brown-nosers- where you were. It's not any faster on the way down, you know. In fact it's rougher on your calves."

"I'd let you be rough on my calves, Cedric," Hermione whispered.

Cedric didn't lift his eyes from his Berkeley, "Cool, thanks."

"Ha! Shows what you know!" Draco sneered. "I'm sitting alone in the Minister's box. Dad is haggling with the peanut vendors, and Mom is probably at home still, on her fifth bloody Mary, with the pool boy..."

It might have been the lack of oxygen talking, but Harry asked, "Do you wanna sit with us, maybe?"

The Dracster scoffed angstily, "NO! I'd rather sit next to Fudge and his busy fingers!"

A silence followed, one that was not as satisfying as Harry would have hoped. Eventually, Draco just sort of trailed away.

The Quidditch match began. And a more bitter rivalry there could not have been!—The Czech Republic and North Korea. North Korea tightly regulated its magic schools and sports teams; the people of the DRNK did actually believe that Kim Jong Il had won the last Quidditch World Cup single-broomedly by a score of a billion to three (a score that was technically impossible considering the lowest thing you could score was ten). Dumbledore visited there once, and had a gay old time with the Glorious Leader and Dennis Rodman, who was there with his ridiculous piercings and whatnot.

Oh right, the match! The match was so awesome it can't be described! There were fireworks and leprechauns and chicks who turned into bird monsters. Harry saw none of this, as his binoculars were turned around, so everyone looked teeny tiny. The highlight of the match was the Czech Seeker, Viktor Krum, who was a little young to be playing professional sports (though, rumor spake that he had walked through the Berlin Wall). The final score was a lot to a little, though North Korea would claim to have won handily dandily (their players looked malnourished, and were duly executed upon repatriation).

The match was over. Despite all the craziness, the match only laster a svelte fourteen minutes. The tickets, even for the crummy seats Harry and Co sat in, ran about thousand galleons each.

"Man! That was so cool! Did you see the way they flew around and threw balls and stuff?!" Ron gushed, his love for blood-sport overpowering his angst.

"I couldn't see anything," Harry pouted, "I think my binoculars were broken."

"Well you didn't miss much," Hermione rolled her eyes, "Typical masculine broohaha, all sweating and grinding and flexing and . . ." she trailed off as she began fanning herself heavily, "I mean, it was all so rugged and passionate and dirty and Cedric I need you!"

Cedric took his eyes away from his book and said to Harry, "I recorded the whole thing. If you want you can come over to my mansion house and watch it on my jumbo screen hyper-magic television. We can eat tacos, too."

Ron almost exploded with joy at the thought of re-seeing this fantasy (IN HD!).

"How?!" Harry yelled. "How did you record it?!"

Cedric shrugged. "Magic."

From stories down, and across scores of rows, Draco's voice carried up to the nosebleeds: "You suck, Potter!"

**A/N: Read and review, or review and read, but never a third option!**


End file.
